


underneath the moonlight

by firebreathing_bitchqueen



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Detective Lucy Liang, F/F, Fluff, Formalwear, Slow Dancing, soft!Morgan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 09:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28468980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firebreathing_bitchqueen/pseuds/firebreathing_bitchqueen
Summary: Lucy turned into Morgan’s hand, took a swaying half step forward into her body. Felt Morgan’s hand move from her hip to spread across her lower back. “What?” She asked, somewhat inanely, she thought. But for all Morgan’s crudeness and truly (deliciously) filthy mouth, it was remarkably rare for her to catch Lucy off-guard.But this…No, this was a true surprise.
Relationships: Female Detective/Morgan (The Wayhaven Chronicles)
Kudos: 16





	underneath the moonlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eeshlyye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeshlyye/gifts).



> Happy holidays, Ash (and happy finally-a-new year)! I had so much fun playing with your detective Lucy and Morgan - hopefully I did them justice here. Enjoy! ♡

Lucy Liang looked goddamn stunning standing in that doorway, somehow sucking all the air from the room despite having barely stepped into it.

In Morgan’s (absolutely correct) opinion, Lucy always looked stunning. Despite most of her clothing being…well, not to Morgan’s taste, exactly, Lucy seemed to be one of those women who made sweatpants look intentionally styled and alluring (Morgan assumed: she was pretty sure she’d never seen Lucy in actual sweatpants, even for sleeping). And, of course, she looked best when she wore nothing at all, with her full breasts and goddamn spectacular ass.

But the dress she’d worn tonight might be a very close second to no dress at all, Morgan thought.

When Lucy stepped into the hotel suite, having changed into something more appropriate for the evening’s dress code, she’d looked so goddamn alluring that Morgan had found herself at a momentary loss for words, her usual capacity for salacious commentary — especially when it came to Lucy — stolen at the detective’s appearance. She felt instead an utter, preternatural stillness shiver across her body, a wave of freezing, wary calm that sharpened her already too-heightened senses, pure animal instinct locking her in place. No predatory instinct, this, but a wholly unfamiliar feeling, sharp slow intake of breath, bubbling roil of fizzing and buzzing in her stomach, in her veins. The kind of bone-locking stillness that seemed to take its own form, invisible but solid, the thick cord of it pulled taut between them. Only her eyes moving, a slow, roving drag across Lucy’s body as she took in the dress, the woman in it.

The woman in the doorway was swathed in a cloud of lace and tulle, and Morgan, with her inhumanly sharp vision still couldn’t confidently name the color of it, aside from light and gleaming, every slightest movement of Lucy’s body, of her breath, the shifting of her weight on (ridiculous, enticing, arrestingly sexy) heels, rustling the layers of silk chiffon and sending what looked for all the world like entirely new spectra of iridescent pastels scintillating into existence. Despite the many loose-draped sheets of delicate fabric making up the gown, there was no hiding the curves and hollows of Lucy’s body, the magnificent swell of her breasts, the tops of them just visible in the sheer panel of silk that stretched up to the base of her throat, floated down to gossamer sleeves, delicately cinched by the velvet ribbons encircling Lucy’s finely boned wrists. The rest of the gown’s bodice clung to her like a painted skin, a shimmer of pink-iced lace and georgette highlighting her slender waist, twining lace vines curling across her ribs, stretching to cup Lucy’s breasts in a way Morgan would swear she could feel, as if for a moment the delicate lacework was made of her own flesh and bones and overactive nerve-endings. At her hips, the hug of fabric gave way to layers upon layers of the same gossamer silk, chiffon and tulle floating and swaying to the tops of Lucy’s ankles, wrapped in the thin straps of her stilettos, the skirt covered in yet more of those trailing lace vines, shimmering and resplendent in the light, dotted here and there with tiny gleaming seed pearls. And though Morgan had never taken a real interest in fashion — and certainly not the finer points of fabric — and _certainly_ not the kinds of clothing to which Lucy seemed drawn (unless she was taking it off) — she found herself wondering how lace and embroidery that looked so sturdy, so heavy, didn’t overwhelm the featherlight sweep of the fabric that held it. How something so soft and delicate could weave something bearing such weight into itself without being rent, without losing its floating swish of buoyant movement.

Thankfully, Nat had also noticed the dress. Had probably also noticed the flick of Lucy’s eyes to Morgan, shrouded in the corner, the frisson of stillness and tension probably, _definitely_ coming off of Morgan in damning, tell-tale waves. Had probably noticed, just as Morgan had, the little flutter of too-shallow breath pulsing at Lucy’s throat, the stir of it along the sheer silk chiffon resting against her collarbone. 

And had diffused just enough of that delicate bubble of held breath to let space back into the hotel room with a polite comment on how well it suited the petite detective…albeit for somewhat different reasons than Morgan had.

No, Nat’s focus had been wholly on the “exquisite construction” of the gown.

“You clearly have a fantastic eye for detail,” Nat had said when Lucy entered their hotel room after changing in her own just down the hall, looking up from one of the briefing folders strewn across the suite’s coffee table alongside a spread of other stakeout paraphernalia. Ava’s makeshift command central for this weekend’s mission. For the threatening _tick tick tick_ down of the bomb (literal? figurative?) the Agency had been convinced now methodically, menacingly wound its way down to tonight’s gala in Mapleford.

The city of Mapleford was only a few hours’ drive from Wayhaven, but the increasingly suspicious incidents — allegedly all accidents, perfectly unremarkable — that had been occurring there lately had begun to raise eyebrows at the Agency. So much so that they’d decided it was worth a closer, more investigative look, particularly as Mapleford was set to host its annual charity gala this weekend. The gala was never a minor undertaking, but this year looked to be one of their biggest yet, as the city prepared to celebrate the event’s fiftieth anniversary and hopefully secure some record-breaking donations from the region’s deepest pockets.

“Thank you,” she’d said brightly, giving a little twirl as she stepped past the threshold and pulled the door shut behind her, the movement lifting the layers of iridescent gossamer tulle that fell in a scintillating pool around her ankles. Her long, golden hair was gathered high at the crown of her head, its length spilling in a glorious waterfall down her back and, somehow, seeming to share the bewitching opalescent shine of the gown, as if through some shared, ancient well of power. Not magic, this, but something older, stranger. And far more potent.

When she turned to snick the door shut, the movement lifted the ends of that gleaming tumble of her hair and Morgan noticed the back of the dress was entirely sheer from her shoulders to the curve of her waist, held together by a long row of silk and seed pearl buttons that snaked from the base of her neck to the base of her spine, as though drawing a wending path for Morgan (for her hands, for her _mouth_ ) to follow.

And then Lucy had Nat _almost_ convinced that modern technology was really worth reconsideration when Nat asked, very tactfully, if it was indeed as expensively tailored as it looked.

“And you’re wondering why a small-town detective has what appears to be a couture gown just on hand in case the need arises?” Lucy laughed, inferring the real question that Nat was far too diplomatic to ever ask herself.

“It’s from Rent the Runway. Even I can’t justify owning this for the zero black tie events I regularly attend.”

Nat smiled back at her, a look of bemused interest crossing her lovely face. “Rent the Runway?”

Lucy’s smile widened. “You know, I think you would actually love it if you got past the whole ‘app-based-shopping’ thing.”

She crossed further into the room, pulling her phone out of her beaded clutch and going to sit in the wingback chair across from Nat, leaning forward to show her the app on her phone. Before she could fully settle herself amongst the layers of tulle, Morgan stepped forward from her corner perch on an end table, apparently having recovered her speech faculties.

“Think you might have a hard time chasing anyone in that get-up, sweetheart,” Morgan observed, though her tone was decidedly not unappreciative. Nor was her gaze, which dragged so slowly, purposefully across Lucy’s body as she rose from her almost-seat, turned to face her as if she were pulled towards her, her breath (her brain, her chest) stuttering to adjust to that pull and its effect on her pulse. As Lucy turned, Morgan’s smoke-and-mirror eyes lingered on the row of tiny, silken buttons she glimpsed along the back of her dress in such a way that Lucy was more than half-sure the dark vampire was deciding exactly how much effort undoing them would take. Or if she’d be better off ripping the gown off Lucy and making it up to her later.

“Maybe I’ve gotten used to being the one chased,” Lucy replied, tilting her chin up to look the taller woman in the eye. Even in her tallest heels, Morgan still had a good couple of inches on the petite detective. Not that either of them minded.

“If you can’t give chase in that, I fail to see how it helps if you’re _being_ chased.”

“It doesn’t, if I didn’t want to be caught.”

_Liar_ , she thought. _You were caught a long time ago._

An arm snaked around her waist and even through the layers of fabric, through Morgan’s sleeves and the folds of Lucy’s own gown, she could feel the welcome heat of the warm, freckled skin underneath, its heat like a promise. 

“You look very nice, too,” she said, her tone light, teasing, but her dark eyes serious, always serious when they fixed on Morgan’s, always open and guileless when drawn (again and again) to her face, the smoky fog of grey eyes somehow always stretching forth to enshroud her completely.

And, indeed, she did. Morgan wore a suit of crushed velvet in a deep, rich burgundy, styled chicly enough that Lucy wondered how exactly Nat had convinced her to wear it (because, surely, Nat’s aesthetic sensibilities had a hand in this ensemble). Parts of the styling, though, were pure Morgan. With the cropped suit trousers just reaching her ankles, Morgan had worn a sleek pair of black moto boots. Under the double-breasted blazer, she apparently wore nothing, if the bare skin displayed beneath the deep V of its lapels were anything to go on. Her face was mostly bare, save the deep red of her mouth, the smudged Kohl lining her eyes. The constellation of freckles scattered across her nose. Morgan looked…Lucy exhaled sharply, as if she’d only just remembered breathing. She couldn’t look away from her. That was how Morgan looked.

Morgan’s wine-colored lips quirked up in a lazy grin as she continued to look down at Lucy, letting the hand on her hip sliding lower.

They both looked up as a throat cleared behind them. “May I remind you that we’re meant to be _working_ here this weekend?”

Lucy heard the eye-roll before she even finished turning, crisp disapproval radiating from each clipped syllable.

“Hi, Ava,” she smiled at the commanding agent, taking a half step from Morgan’s hands on her waist — though she was unable to extricate herself from the pull of Morgan’s orbit.

“Hello, detective,” Ava responded, moving to sit beside Nat as she reached for one of the folders scattered across the suite’s coffee table.

“Where is Farah?”

“I’m here!” a voice called from…somewhere. Resettled in her armchair, Lucy tilted her head, brows furrowed as she tried to determine from whence the voice had come.

“What is she doing on the balcony? Unsupervised?” Morgan asked dryly, having perched in her now-usual spot on the arm of whatever chair Lucy sat in.

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Nat gave a delicate wince, and Ava stalked across the room to the French doors leading outside, muttering something about “collecting Farah.”

—

After two hours of socializing, of smiling agreeably at fellow party-goers, of idly swaying along to the music of the swing band hired to play that evening’s event, nothing had happened. Not absolutely nothing — Morgan had begun to develop a clenched-jaw, dark cloud of a scowl — at the noise, at the people, at the other patrons who asked Lucy to dance when Morgan did not — so pronounced that Lucy wondered if perhaps her face might, as was so often told to children among other bald-faced lies, actually be forever caught in that expression. But otherwise…

“I almost _wish_ someone would blow up this fucking party,” Morgan groused, shoulders hunched like she was trying to curl into herself and out of the surrounding glittering roar of the party. She looked up (or, rather, her eyes flicked up as if pulled by some outside gravity) at Lucy, who had just returned to their table in a whirling plume of tulle and prettily flushed cheeks, soft smile and little wave at whomever she’d just finished dancing with. She picked up her glass and took a deep sip, breathing in deeply and smiling softly over at Morgan.

Her smile faltered a little as she looked at Morgan. Not because the woman didn’t return her smile (she so rarely did), but because of the lines of fatigue around her eyes, the strained quality of the smirk she directed at the detective.

This had to suck for her, Lucy thought. The crowds and the noise and the crush of it all, the assault of the sights-sounds-smells, the quick brushes past of shoulders and hips edging around the table, around _her._ It must be battering at Morgan, each gentle _clink_ of champagne glasses and snapping _click_ of stilettos on the marble floors under these vaulted ceilings must be a devastating crescendo of sensations crashing down around the especially sensitive vampire ( _too_ sensitive, Morgan had said before, though lately she’d been suggesting that all those super-heightened senses weren’t so bad when Lucy took such meticulous, skillful, such _devastating_ advantage of them, soothed and scratched at them all at once).

And, apparently, all that onslaught had been for naught. Lucy wasn’t sorry about the lost weekend — certainly wasn’t regretting the chance to dress up, go to a fancy party, to spend more time (even technically on the clock) with the team and all their idiosyncrasies. To see Morgan looking even more devastatingly gorgeous than Lucy would have expected. She wasn’t even particularly bothered by any wasted time on the part of the team and this stakeout attempt. These were the responsibilities of their jobs. Not every stakeout came to fruition, but hopefully at least some new information could be gleaned.

But Morgan…this was not fun for Morgan. It was never going to be, but at least knowing discomfort was in service of solving a case would have assuaged any guilt Lucy might have felt about Morgan’s clear, physical irritation by the whole affair. Absent that, however, Lucy couldn’t let it stand. She could do something about this. And still do her job.

She slipped her cell out of her clutch and tapped out a quick text to Farah, having the time of her life masquerading as one of the catering staff, snooping and skulking (” _Monitoring!_ ” she’d protested earlier) about every corridor and intentionally secluded corner of the gala. Lucy’s mouth flexed in a half-grin, half-grimace at the thought of the many interrupted assignations and tête-à-têtes Farah would surely still be reveling in come morning.

LUCY: hey, Fare, you still “monitoring” things?

FARAH: Of course! I take my responsibilities here _very_ seriously. But a moment ago I was forced to remind a couple of the party being in the ballroom and not the kitchen.

LUCY: Lucky them to have you to remind them :)

LUCY: Listen, how would you feel about helping me keep eyes on things? Just for a bit! You vampires get all the eyesight perks :) Just text me if the vibe changes?

FARAH: Aye, aye, captain!

Lucy smiled, both in satisfaction and at the saluting GIF Farah had sent to follow her assent. She sent back a quick string of raised hand emojis, and slipped her phone back into her clutch. She turned to Morgan.

“Hey.” She had to lean close to be heard without shouting over the band. Not that she minded.

Morgan, whose gaze hadn’t strayed far from Lucy all night, flicked her gaze towards the other woman’s face. She cocked a dark brow in response.

Lucy slid a hand over Morgan’s velvet-clad knee under the table. “How do you feel about surprises?”

“What kind of surprises are we talking about, sweetheart?”

A less strained smirk. Progress.

Lucy’s smile grew, a glint of straight white teeth between parted lips.

“The kind I think you’ll very much enjoy.”

—

For the second time that night, Morgan arched a dark brow at Lucy, shooting her an appraising look somewhere between surprised and impressed, and deeply approving either way.

Lucy lifted her chin a fraction and raised one of her own perfectly manicured brows at the dark vampire, a pleased smile stretching across her face. When she noticed Morgan’s gaze drift to focus on her mouth at the movement, her pink lips parted slightly as her smile widened further, turned almost — no, turned _definitely_ suggestive.

“ ‘Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean’,” she quoted, voice a mischievous whisper.

And then she was gone in a swish of silk and tulle, once again surprising Morgan with how nimbly she could move, despite the steep flight of stairs, the layers of skirts, the needle-thin heels. Despite her humanness.

Morgan, unimpeded by any of these things, caught up to her in barely a moment’s effort. (Okay, she still had to climb the same flight of stairs — to Farah’s everlasting disappointment, vampires were not in fact gifted with powers of flight or transfiguration into animal forms.) She stretched a hand out to wrap around the other woman’s wrist, to ask her (intriguing as this was) where exactly the fuck they were going.

Before she could voice the question, Lucy looked back at her over one silk-clad shoulder, raising a brow of her own. “Surprise,” she murmured, and pushed open the door in front of them with a rush of cool night air.

Morgan blinked. Followed Lucy out. Then chuckled deeply.

“I didn’t realize you paid such close attention to those building plans Ava thought everyone should commit to memory.”

Lucy grinned back at her, giving a little twirl on the roof. “I take my job very seriously.”

And then, in blissful silence, the two simply stood, shoulder to shoulder on the rooftop, content for the moment to breathe in the crisp moonlit night, just cool enough at that height for the air to feel almost sharp with each deep, bracing breath. This high up, the clamor of the traffic below was a dull rumble. The raucous band floors below only just audible to Lucy’s ears.

So probably a listen-able volume for Morgan, she thought.

Then Morgan turned. Slid a hand along the silky curve of Lucy’s waist.

“Dance with me,” the dark vampire murmured, voice low and intent.

Lucy turned into Morgan’s hand, took a swaying half step forward into her body. Felt Morgan’s hand move from her hip to spread across her lower back. “What?” She asked, somewhat inanely, she thought. But for all Morgan’s crudeness and truly ( _deliciously_ ) filthy mouth, it was remarkably rare for her to catch Lucy off-guard.

But this…

No, this was a true surprise.

“Dance. With me,” Morgan repeated, stepped closer, tangling her free hand with one of Lucy’s, her breath warm and ticklish against the thin skin under Lucy’s ear, her thumb rubbing idly along the side ridge of Lucy’s hand. “The thing you were doing literally five minutes ago? And before that?”

Lucy laughed lightly, but let Morgan pull her forward. “I’m sorry, are you jealous?”

Morgan huffed a laugh. “Sweetheart, I know I have better eyes than you, but I think even you know those people were no threat to us.”

_To us_ , Lucy thought. Then made herself push it away.

“But you like dancing,” Morgan continued. “And I no longer have a goddamn migraine from the racket downstairs.”

“But you still don’t like dancing,” Lucy pointed out pragmatically.

They were already dancing, bodies moving as if propelled by the faint strains of the band many floors below, only the loudest notes floating up through the windows. Morgan’s fingers warm and steady wrapped around hers, the hand on her back a searing blaze through all the layers of silk and tulle. Lucy could barely hear the strains of the music but Morgan was once again unhindered by Lucy’s human limitations, steering them unfaltering into (of all things) a waltz, its steady rhythm holding Lucy — perhaps holding them both — aloft, eyes not wavering from each other’s.

And Morgan, for all her protests and derision, was a really good dancer. Not that Lucy was terribly surprised, when she thought about it. She was already well aware, they were both well aware, of how naturally ( _sinfully_ ) well their bodies moved together in other kinds of dances.

“And you still do like dancing, sweetheart. Besides, I like anything that lets me put my hands on this body,” Morgan breathed, the hand on Lucy’s lower back sliding lower and tightening with possessive intent.

And as Morgan, never looking away from her, never faltering, spun her fast enough that her shimmering opal skirts fanned out, seeming for all the world to be woven from pure moonlight, Lucy thanked whatever the hell was or wasn’t out there in the universe for the most anti-climactic stakeout she’d ever encountered. 


End file.
